


The Wrong Time

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fainting, Gen, Hugging, Post Reichenbach, Punching, Reunion Fic, in that order, it's based off the series 3 teaser trailer, ta da
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of the S3 Sherlock Teaser Trailer, and Anna's (ughbenedict) prompt, here is: Sherlock revealing his liveliness to John. In a restaurant. In public. In front of his date, to whom he was about to propose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Time

Despite the fact that he’s done this four times already, Sherlock knows that this particular time will be the most difficult. He takes a determined inhale, then huffs it back out with a shake of his head and paces along the restaurant’s exterior wall. Passersby look at him with brows furrowed in either confusion or concern when he falls heavily against the bricks and digs the heels of his hands into his temples.

It’s simple. Walk in, explain. It’s the most simple approach he could possibly take, and it’s worked four times already. Granted, one time ended in Molly nearly hitting him with a textbook out of surprise, but it had proceeded well.

He heaves himself off the wall and shoves apprehension out of his mind as he approaches the door. He stands outside for a moment, slowing the beating of his adrenaline fueled heart, and exhales slowly before stepping forward and pushing the doors open. A greeter meets him just inside and offers to take his coat, which he slides off fluidly and hands to her, along with a tip. The Maitre D asks if he’ll be accompanied by someone else later, and Sherlock tells him that he’s actually meeting someone, and gestures to a woman nearby who’s clearly waiting for someone already. The Maitre D smiles and waves him through, and Sherlock walks toward the woman’s table while scanning the room around him. Once he spots who he’s looking for, he diverts and walks off to the side, a small nook where he can take a moment to catch his breath, because his heart is already pounding once again, and it’s close to physically painful.

Anxious; he’s actually, legitimately anxious. He breathes slowly, runs a hand through his curls (recently trimmed from their far-too-long state into something more manageable) and straightens his jacket.

With a nod at no-one, and a determined look for his own sake, he steps back out and walks towards John’s table.

And then slows as he approaches, because he shouldn’t be here. No, god no, he shouldn’t be anywhere near this.

When told by Mrs. Hudson that John was visiting this restaurant tonight, Sherlock had known he’d be on a date - it wasn’t the kind of place John would visit on his own. Popping in during the middle of a date wasn’t entirely ideal, but Sherlock had already made his rounds of everyone else (stopping in mid-morning to see Mrs. Hudson, meeting Lestrade as he was leaving a crime scene, informing Molly that he was finally dropping his cover back at Bart’s), and he wasn’t going to wait to see John. Dropping in at his workplace wasn’t an option, so this would have to do.

However, now that he has a proper view of the situation, he’s suddenly aware of how very wrong coming in was. The restaurant, the way John’s dressed, as well as the attire of the woman across from him, the atmosphere, he’s... This isn’t just a date. John doesn’t dress like this for dates - he dresses nicely, of course, but this is over the top. He’s wearing a suit, a tie. Sherlock nearly stops dead in his tracks, eyes starting to tingle with tears he doesn’t understand the origin of, but he’s catching the attention of those around him. Heart trembling in his chest, he blinks hard to clear his eyes and continues forward with a looming feeling of guilt clouding him. He thinks he can feel his hands shaking.

When he reaches the table, he stops a small distance behind the chair of John’s date and folds his hands behind his back. “Excuse me,” he says softly.

Unsuspectingly, John glances up, and within two seconds, the colour drains from his face and his lips part in shock. That spurs his date to turn around, and her eyes - bright and blue and framed lightly with mascara, but nothing more - go wide. She recognises him as well.

“Oh, my god,” she whispers, and then glances to John, who looks startlingly peaky. “John, are you - ?”

“I’m - I’m fine,” he manages, still gawping up at Sherlock. “Can - you can see him, right?” She nods, and he reciprocates.

“Not so fine, actually, I think,” he rasps. And then - to the surprise of not only Sherlock and John’s date, but to the patrons sitting around them - John passes out and drops his head to the table.

Both Sherlock and John’s date yelp, “John!” and hurry over to help sit him back upright. Sherlock takes ahold of his shoulders and the woman tips John’s head up, both gently leaning him against the back of his chair.

John’s date glances up at Sherlock, and for a moment he expects her to scold or shout, or act anything like all the others have, but all she does is smile at him and say, “my name’s Mary. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

~

 

After John comes to and assures the crowd around him that he’s fine, had a bit of a fright, please tell me no one called an ambulance, he leans his elbows on the table and puts his head in his hands, either trying to soothe a headache or hide his burning, embarrassed face. Neither Sherlock nor Mary is quite sure.

“I think I’m going to step outside,” Mary tells them, looking at Sherlock across the table with an expectant raised brow. He draws his together in confusion and she nods at John in turn.

“That’s not necessary,” Sherlock says firmly, trying to mask his nervousness. She smirks and shrugs, getting up anyway.

“I could use a breath of fresh air. It’s gotten rather crowded.” With a squeeze to John’s shoulder, she strolls off and weaves in-between tables until she’s out the door, and Sherlock is left sitting across from John, staring awkwardly at the table cloth.

“I... apologise,” he murmurs. “There was a very large spectrum of expected outcomes but I hadn’t factored in that you might - “

“Don’t,” John interrupts. “Just... don’t with the technical talk and the deductions - just don’t talk at all, actually.” He rubs his eyes before dropping his hands to the table and staring brokenly at Sherlock. The weight of his expression makes Sherlock squirm in his seat. “Of all the places, of all the times to - to drop something like this on me, you came in tonight. In public.”

Sherlock purses his lips and lets his gaze settle on one of the candle’s wavering flames. “I realise - “

“No, shut up,” John cuts him off. “Don’t talk, because you’ve clearly forgotten how social decorum works after three years without a bloody mediator, so shut up and listen. Number one on the list of things you don’t do: show up in a restaurant after three years of playing dead, on the night you must have known I was going to propose, and expect me to react rationally.” With that, his chair scrapes loudly against the floor and he’s on his feet and off toward the door. Hurriedly, Sherlock stands up and rushes after him. He hears the Maitre D saying something after them, but ignores it. He strides out the door and grabs John’s arm, stopping him in the middle of the pavement.

“John, I - “

And, before he can finish, John turns right around and a fist collides with Sherlock’s nose.

“Just shut up!” he shouts.

“John!” Mary exclaims. She reaches out to stop him from walking away, but he pushes past and storms off. Blood starting to drip from his nose, Sherlock regains his bearing and follows, his strides longer and quicker, and when he reaches John he grabs his arm again, but when John tries to pull away, Sherlock pulls back and quickly wraps his arms around John’s shoulders. Less than a moment later, John’s arms are around his middle and his hands are clutching the material of Sherlock’s jacket.

“You unbelievable fucking bastard,” he chokes out.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock utters, startled. He hadn’t expected that this would work. He tightens his hold just the slightest out of relief. A bit of blood slides onto his lip and he sniffs, trying to stop it. He can hear Mary walking up to them.

“I hate you,” John says. “I missed you.” Sherlock recognises the congested sound of tears in his voice from ages and ages ago, and a tendril of guilt twists in his gut.

“I know,” he murmurs in reply.

Mary strolls up behind John and puts a hand on his back, smiling sadly up at Sherlock.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you,” she says softly.

**Author's Note:**

> After all this happens, the Maitre D comes out and tells them that they still have to pay for the wine, and while John goes in, Mary gives Sherlock a tissue for his bloody nose and then they all go back to John's and Mary's flat. John probably doesn't end up proposing for another couple of days, because Sherlock. But he still does propose. And we can pretend it's happy even though it kills me inside.


End file.
